Memorandum Of Understanding And Experience, Mr Holmes
by EverlastingAndMercurial
Summary: Follows loosely from 6 Thatchers (although there wasn't any DVD) and it's a little closer to HLV than is cannon. Almost a year after Molly said "anyone but you"; John is still angry at Sherlock, and he's drunk because of Sherlock, and he's turned on...by Sherlock. Warnings for graphic, kinky, sex; language, angst - probably a lot of other things to. 3 Chapters. Please R and R.
1. Chapter 1 - Deductions

**Memorandum** **Of Understanding And Experience, Mr Holmes.**

 **Chapter One - Deductions**

There are two obvious deductions to be made about the man standing in front of me – need a clue?

Deduction A. It's two o'clock in the morning and he's just walked in the house like he owns it, or at least owns something inside it (which I guess he does). He's not actually said anything since he arrived and woke me up from my slumber on the sofa; yet his mouth keeps opening and closing like there are words he's trying to say. He's swaying, just slightly, in his oversized boots. And then there's the whisky on his breath and the tremor in his hands and the slight glazed look about his eyes.

Deduction B. Those eyes, deep blue, are very wide and very dark and trying to look anywhere but me whilst simultaneously capture me in some sort of trap. He's been standing still for a while, he took a taxi here, he hasn't done anything that can be described as exercise, yet his breathing is short and sharp; I can practically hear his heart rushing. His thumbs are looped into his belt, his slender fingers making a downwards V to a heavy, delicious, weight.

Those deductions are elementary, what's more interesting are the reasons why now. Why after ever so politely using Molly to remove me from his life; and then that haunting letter. Leaving me in silence and darkness, not even granting me with an accepted phone ring; suffocating me in my misery for months. Why now is he suddenly in our flat, my flat, at two in the morning. Why is he standing here staring at me, wordlessly thinking so loudly I wish I could shut him up.

Ok so yes, deduction A – the drunken anger, I do deserve that. I've caused it so I should take it. I will stand here and let him beat me into submission as he screams at me if that's what he wants, at least it would be easier than the silence of the world without him.

But I'm much more interested in deduction B. Who's responsible for that emotion, and what does he want me to do about it?

"John," I start talking first, mainly to put him out of his misery, also because I'm bored of just looking at him.

"Sherlock," he slurs.

Great, I'm not sure we're going to get anywhere if we just say our names out loud.

"You're… here."

"Yes, there's things I need to say, things that…" He starts so well, so indignantly, almost prepared with a speech of disappointment and hatred but as his eyes lock to mine he loses his words. "Things that need to be said-" his words start slurring some more through drink. His body makes a tiny almost imperceptible lean towards my own. Ah so maybe he does want me to do something about deduction B.

Things have happened before, you know deduction B things. Usually they were drink fuelled, and usually quick and hurried. Of course, I wanted to as soon as I met him. I'd had a pleasant dream about a science lab and the size and shape of test tubes and it couldn't have been a coincidence that I'd met such a man in the lab only a few days later. But he seemed so heterosexual, into the social construct of boyfriend and girlfriend and I almost didn't bother. Until his drunken hand made contact with my knee and his eyes locked to mine and we were against the couch before many deductions could be made; his hands fumbling with my belt buckle as mine buried deep in his unnecessarily small boxers. That happened a few times, always after drink, never spoken of. And then of course there was Moriaty and his network and what John and I had was necessary collateral. There's still a pang in my heart as I consider those months, if there had been any other way. But there wasn't so I left him free, and free he was to meet Mary.

"You, you killed my wife!" He yells now, having found his words.

"Actually Vivian Nor-"

"Oh don't twist my words Sherlock, That bullet was meant for you," he said thrusting a finger at me. "She took that bullet for you. And regardless you made a vow to us Sherlock, you made us your first and last vow."

"I know."

"You, Sherlock." That finger, that was jabbing at me with judgement, has found a rest against my chest.

"She saved me, John" I say stepping forward, closer to him, I need him to listen to me, I need him to stop with the silence that's more deafening than the bullet was.

His eyes darken and widen and there's so many things left unsaid.

"You took her away from me!" That finger is trailing around my neck now, taking my pulse, making it rush. "Do you even understand?"

"Help me to, please."

"And in doing that you" he coughs, "you took you away from me."

I step closer, purposefully, I need him to know I am where I always am, right here.

"Oh God, Sherlock, I've missed you – I've…"

His hand cups my chin, his finger ghosts across my lips. A taxi drives past lighting up the otherwise darkened house and his wedding ring glints with guilt.

"John," it takes so much to say his name, I want to pull him to me and sink into him, but this isn't right, not now.

"John" I say again as he leans up, his warm lips slightly damp, slightly parted.

"John, we said we weren't going to – not again."

We'd made a promise, the night of the stag do. The night of no more. And I can't take when he's this intoxicated.

His mouth is almost against my own, I can almost taste him. But my words make him stop, he shakes his head as his eyes suddenly clear. He takes a step back.

"Yes." He nods and coughs, "yes quite right. I'm sorry I don't know what-"

"You're grieving."

He stares at me, blinks hard, he's questioning how I can understand that grief makes you do stupid things like crave the affection of others. He doesn't realise I'm also grieving, but the person I'm grieving for is standing right in front of me.

Suddenly my face is thrust to the right, my cheek stinging with the implant of his hand.

"That's what I came here do to," is his explanation for the slap.

I instinctively bring my hand up to my cheek, soothe the burn. My mind must be slowed from the almost kiss as I don't notice his hand coming up to assault my other cheek. My best friend barrels into me with both fists and I can only stand still. This physical pain is no less than what I deserve. When I think of the pain I caused Mary in her final moments, the pain I've caused John and Rosamund every day for the rest of their lives. Any pain he could give me pales in comparison.

And it's John, my John that's doing this, his fists that are tormenting me. Here in my flat, our flat, he's standing with me, his hands are on me. I breathe him in and accept him, I feel parts of my psyche relax.

Then I notice his hands trembling, but not with anger. And I notice his eyelashes drop as his gaze becomes heavy. He's crying. I gather him to me, pull him against me. He resists, of course, physically fighting my hugging arms. I keep a distance between his legs and my own. I don't want him to know how his anger has affected me. Violence has always been my undoing, triggers a dark place inside.

"Sherlock, are you…" his brows knot in a furrow of confusion as he pulls away, stares at my face, and then down. "You're getting off on this." He says driving backwards out of my embrace.

"John-"

"Save it!"

He storms towards the door and doesn't turn around until he's there.

"I," there is so much disgust on his tongue, in his eyes, and then he lands on the phrase he must know is going to scar. "I don't understand you."

I have been told that statement more times than I care to remember. I've been doubted, blamed, called names by people I thought friends - Freak, weirdo. But not by him, not by the person that matters. His words floor me so it takes me a few moments to chase him down the stairs.

"John, wait!"

He looks almost menacing in the dark of the stairway; but his body looks so weak, all I want to do is protect him.

"How are you getting home?"

He doesn't grace me with a response - taking two stairs at a time now.

"Stay with me tonight..in your old room, leave first thing in the morning if you must just don't go when you're in this state."

He accepts with finality. He treads both sets of stairs to his bedroom without a word, slams the door. I pace into mine, using my mind palace and mediation techniques to relax enough to strip and get into bed.

* * *

I've heard the rumour that I'm asexual, and that's partly correct, I need more than sex to get me there. Pain and Pleasure - the only way my mind can still for long enough to care about getting off. It's lame to admit that it was at University where I was awoken. It was there, at 17 years of age, that I was taught in the ways of eroticism, and BDSM. I don't conform to the stereotypes of modern relationships, I don't care for the lives we're supposed to lead with others. I have always been my own best keeper, but when it comes to sex I'm more experienced than they would believe; and there's so few people who look beneath the surface. He did though, I know he did. I know he deduced and understood.

* * *

My dreams are filled with half remembered fantasies and endeavours. In the boudoir of my mind palace there are several corridors, tonight each hallway leads back to him. The way the taste of mint seems to permeate his lips. The look in his eyes as he reaches oblivion inside my hand. The softness of his hesitant touch against my hard heat. My dreams are all of him, My memories of him and my memories of others do the thing that dreams do - twist and meld - until its John with the whip and the beads. John who's hands are around my neck as he pummels into me, turning pain into pleasure. John who's weight presses into mine as he stretches my hands into cuffs.

It's the WOOSHCRACK of the whip against my back that alerts me that maybe I'm more awake than I realise.

My eyes jolt open and I realise I'm splayed on my front, my arms pulled taught above my head into thick cold metal clasps, my feet attached to the footboard with scarlet ties. But I'm not scared, I'm not angry, I feel John's impression upon my back and I'm already melted into the heat of him. Knowing that he is straddling me, his boxer clad form pressed against my naked one, is almost enough to rip me from reality. And God I hope it's those red boxers.

There's another wooshcrack against the curve of my back, bringing the delirious sting, before his lips tend to the mark. Is this really John…my John Watson?

The soft warm heat of his mouth follows up, and up until they ghost around my ear.

"I can't sleep," he whispers, the huskiness of his voice streams into my ear, "lying in your house is too bloody distracting."

"John? Are you…" I start thinking that the only possible explanation for any of this is that he's drunk more since we said goodnight; if he has tomorrow he could blame me for taking advantage and I couldn't cope with any further distance between us.

His hand slaps against my arse, and I feel myself spring to his attention.

"Stop thinking," he orders.

His hand trails in between my legs, snags at the hair, as he teases me and knows me.

Our heart beats match.

"I lied," he whispers, his voice wrapped in heat. "I understand you. I know what turns you on. I've seen you, with Moriaty, with Adler; yes maybe nothing ever fucking happened with them, ones a psychopath and the others a lesbian but I still lost you to your room for a week every time you saw them, lost the shower to the smell of you. And every time you saw them something would happen between us a few weeks later. You didn't know it, but you'd only use me to calm your libido, your mind would be elsewhere…"

I rush to correct him but his fingers of his left hand ghost around my lips as the fingers of his right trace the edges of my balls; and he slowly robs me of my mind.

"Oh yeah, I know what turns you on... and maybe there is something a little erotic about it Sherlock... Lord knows I've dreamed of this, of doing this to you... Do you know what I'm saying? I'd get into the shower, smell your spunk and dream of doing this to you."

I snap my head around to stare at him. I still can't believe these words are coming from him, a half thought enters through me that maybe he's joking. But his blue eyes are so fucking dark they're black, and there's beads of sweat forming just beneath that greying hair, and then there's the pressure of his cock on my back.

"But I'm so fucking angry at you, Sherlock." He snarls. He leans his torso up as with a strong bicep-bulging arm he presses my head further into the pillow. "I was quite happy before, being heterosexual, wanting the idea of a girlfriend; a normal and uncomplicated life; and normal and uncomplicated sex."

"Boring, John." I say, teasing him now I can hear the sincerity in his voice. The fact he's really here with me is like a fire breathing snake inside my libido. "You mean boring."

He coughs, my voice has broken his reverie for a second. But I see the curve of his lips and know he doesn't want to be anywhere else.

"And then you had to come along and start making me feel like…. Like this." He says and he presses his groin further into my arse, his cotton clad cock dips into the crack. "Like I need to control and own and fuck every inch of you."

Even the way he says that expletive pumps blood straight to my dick.

"And then as soon as you've completed that, making me feel like that, making me feel that fucking high, you fucking die on me! So... I pick myself up and meet Mary, a woman I can love and lead a simple, normal and uncomplicated life with. But you even have to fuck that up. And you fuck it up in such a way that means that I not only lose my wife but I lose you as well. I loose my best friend."

"I'm here-" I start to tell him but he grasps at my face with more fury, smothering my mouth with the palm of his hand.

"Shut up!" He says his words sharp as crystals. "I don't want you tonight, I want Sherlock Holmes."

If I could, I would tell him that his words were ultimately flawed but his hand is so forcefully pushing into my face I feel almost delirious.

There's a breath. Then he's sitting on his haunches again, his weight pressing into my butt, and there's the whisper of the whip down my spine.

"And I'm going to fuck Sherlock Holmes' special mind into oblivion," he promises before drawing the whip back down on me.

* * *

 _My first Sherlock fanfic (although definitely not my first fanfic!) please be kind. Bare with me on John's characterisation I get a little closer I think - remember he's drunk right now and people don't act themselves when they're drunk. Already working on the next fic so any con/crit and comments will be very welcome._


	2. Chapter 2 - Awareness

**Memorandum** **Of Understanding And Experience, Mr Holmes.**

 **Chapter Two - Awareness**

The whip play is incredible. He's the alpha and he's acting so fucking confident. But I know from the hesitation and the pattern of his breath that this is all so new to him. I know that this is my John, and these places he's going to with me are places he would only ever go to for me.

Each crack against my back pours more lust into my groin, rids my mind of the power to calculate and observe, all I can feel and all I want to feel is him.

As he throws away the whip I see out of the corner of my eye that he reaches for the beads. I wonder how he knew I had these toys or where I kept them. He catches me watching him over my shoulder and all he has to do is wink for my mind to go delirious. His breath hitches as I feel the pressure around my hole. He inserts each bead deep inside me – one, two three. Each with that satisfying pop. All I can do is focus on him and the sensations of what he's doing to me. He twists those beads inside me, thrashes them and assaults my prostate.

"Is this-" his voice is different than I've ever heard it before, "is this right?"

I attempt to nod my head but my movements are obviously slurred as he begs.

"Sherlock, answer me, please?"

"Fuck, yes John." I cry. "This is fucking incredible. You're incredible."

Through lust induced eyes I gaze at him over my shoulder, and he smiles as though he's proud of himself. One thought is crystal clear - I'm ruined. From this moment on I can belong to nobody else.

"Where did you find the films?" I say making my deduction.

"Your browser history," he confesses.

I know the press of his aching cock on my back is impulsive, involuntary.

I remember noticing that something was different about the flat about a month ago, the smell was different. I put it down to the strange neighbors. The idea that John was here a month ago, thinking about this a month ago, fills my cock with more hunger.

"Enjoy it?"

"It was enlightening," he says quickly, his words more confident than the blush on his cheeks would have you believe.

The look in his eyes brings an image clear to mine, John in the living room, in front of my laptop, his leg cocked up on the kitchen table as his hand explores. I don't need to ask but what the hell.

"Do some fantasizing?" I ask.

"What?" Impulsively, he acts a little defensive, "maybe," he corrects himself.

I moan for him letting him know how much he has me. I can almost taste the breath he misses.

"Yes, yes," he confesses.

The look in his eyes tells me perhaps I shouldn't be beaming like I am.

His movements are quick as he pulls the beads with force. They rub angrily at my hole.

"You're suck a fucking arrogant cock!" He bites between his teeth.

I would worry he's leaving, but I know he's not. He thrusts the beads in, almost to the hilt, his finger alongside.

"Time to stop thinking now Mr Holmes," he promises as his efforts double in force.

He's glorious, I press my head into the pillow, I get the escape my mind needs not to fracture. As I start to lose to the darkness I thrash on the bed beneath him. He sits firmer his cock pressing harder, locking me. The feeling of each bead entering me; the sound of his breath hitching; the smell of him against my bed sheets; the weight of him; it's all too much and too soon and I can feel myself about to come. I can feel the tendrils of climax whip about my heart and mind. There's a non-coherent stream of moans falling between my lips, a tingle spreading from my bollocks, and then I feel his hands against my balls; his grip blocking the climax.

"Breathe," he orders, as he drops the beads.

His legs curl away from me, as he stops touching me in every erotic way and my body cries for the loss of his. He leaves the beads within me but with no touch they're not enough. It's agonising moments before I can feel him again.

His face presses into mine again, God I love the feel of the jut of his chin against my cheek.

"You don't get satisfaction yet Sherlock," he whispers and I try to pretend I can't hear the spite in his voice. He laughs a little as he runs a finger up the left side of my cock.

It's from this moment that I belong completely to him, I am at his mercy, and fuck that's good.

Suddenly I feel the pressure of the whip one final time, causing expletives to expel from my mouth.

"Fuck you."

"Actually I was planning on quite the opposite." He promises and he angles himself into me, rubbing his cock against my back, it's the pattern of his breath that tells me it's more for his relief than it is for my pleasure; and God I want to see him, I want to know the effect this is having on his glorious body.

"Now I think you know who's in charge don't you?"

And I nod, like his fucking puppet.

"You're going to behave so that I can untie you and flip you around, aren't you?"

"Yes," I breathe, my voice is so fucking husky I'm almost ashamed.

"What do you say?"

"Yes, Doctor." I say and I tilt my head for that look in his eyes.

His fingers make fast work of the handcuffs and the ropes, and his hands are on my hips as he helps me around. He looks and waits like he's expecting me to move. But his orders were simple and I need to uncover more of this new Dr Watson; the man in control. I'm completely his. I just tilt my head to the side and raise an eyebrow.

He grabs my cock, not softly and slowly, not hesitantly like he's done in the past, but with some form of death grip that causes me to thrash to get satisfaction. It's just that little bit too tight to bring relief. A feint laugh falls between his lips before he removes his hand and I cry in response.

His eyes map down my body and I take the opportunity to look at him, to really take him in. Time has changed him since I last got the opportunity to see him naked, well nearly naked. Obviously his body is still perfect. His carved body is a story of war - the tattoo of service, those scars and muscles that define how he gets his excitement. But there's the little changes now, the grey hair almost makes him look refined, adds to that lived in look that causes my blood to heat. There's a little more hair on his chest, Mary got him to stop with the waxing which I greatly appreciate. Lower he looks harder and bigger than I've ever seen him before in those red boxers.

"Now what am I going to do with you?" He says, his fingers trailing up my chest. I love the beam that falls over his lips as he settles on an idea. "Open your mouth Mr Holmes," he whispers, deliciously.

I do as he says and he shuffles up the bed bringing that arse of his closer to my view. As I see him lowering his cock to my mouth I get the mind power to manage to whisper a reminder, "underwear."

If he's reminded, he doesn't care. He lowers his cotton clad cock onto my mouth and rubs the taste of material and his precum all over my lips. But the barrier prevents me from really knowing him. He's teasing me with the feint realisation of him.

It's not enough it couldn't ever be enough. I moan in protest.

He grips my wrists, bringing them up to the sides of my head, pushing me into the pillow.

"You don't get my cock Sherlock. Not the whole thing. You've kept me away from the whole of you for so long, so you have to be patient." He banters, possibly even taunts me.

I up my game, catching him off guard as I quickly shuck the boxers out the way with my chin and reach my tongue into press against his hard, throbbing member.

He moves quickly, his hand grabs my thigh, he digs his blunt nails into my skin whilst almost simultaneously twisting my pubic hair – punishment.

"Do you need a reminder of who's in charge tonight Sherlock?"

I grin at him but shake my head I don't want to push him too far off his game.

"What do you say?"

"Please John…please, Captain," I change his title and watch his eyes flash – I remember how excited he became calling rank at the Baskervilles.

"Fuck, Sherlock," his voice falters.

"Please Captain, let me taste you. Fuck my mouth."

As he leaves the bed my heart thrashes for a second as I start to worry that perhaps I've pushed him too far. But all he does is shake off his boxers and he's soon settling in place to press his cock against my lips. I open up and take him all in; and he thrashes above me almost without rhythm, like he's never been so high. My name falls between his lips and sounds delicious, we both know it, so he does it over and over again. The sight is one of the most erotic I've seen and I will hold it in a frame forever. The miracle of the man that is John Watson, upright above me, with his fingers pressing white knuckled on to my wall, his head tilting back; moaning at the pleasure of what my mouth can do to him. I feel my arse grip tighter to the plastic beads.

I grip onto his hips, my index finger finding and tracing the imprint of the bullet - I always wondered if it continued to mark his body.

His movements grow faster and heavier as he pushes deeper inside me and I barely manage to control my gag reflex. But as quickly as he's there he's pulled away again. He grabs his cock in his hand but I can see it's to steel himself rather than for pleasure.

He sits, his head still tilted back. He's eyes tight shut. He's still for so long I need to ask.

"John are you OK?"

His eyes spring open as he looks down at me and that blue is darker than I've ever seen, there's a red hue to his cheeks which is fucking adorable. God I want this man so much.

"Fuck you're nearly too good at that." He breathes finally, and I can tell by the tone of his voice exactly where his thoughts had taken him. "But there's only one place I want to come tonight." He whispers and his fingers trails around the exact bead that's half way inside me, stretching me.

Oxygen passes quickly through my lungs.

He shuffles down the bed. His fingers pull and twist at the plastic inside me as he prepares me.

His lips press at the inside of my thigh, the soft grey of top of his head brushing against my cock. He grins up at me from down there and I nearly lose my mind at the glory of that smile. His lips trail up the inside of my leg, closer and closer to my desire; but just as he gets there, the dent of skin where groin becomes cock; he moves away quickly. His lips revert to the other side.

"Fucking tease," I moan and he beams at me in response.

His mouth still presses tiny kisses to my heated skin and all the time, he's twisting and rubbing at the beads. I'm more his than I have ever been anyone elses.

When I say there have been times we've been together before I want you to understand that all he's done is wank me off, hurriedly and hesitantly, his hand in my boxers. I've given him head, have quite enjoyed stretching myself around the weight of him, but if the suggestion of reciprocation was even hinted at he would close off entirely and push me away. So, when I say I need him to put his mouth on me, it comes with three years' worth of frustration. I need to explain that, because I want you to know why even after everything so far I can't even hope it's going to happen. And it explains how my moan is tortured as his tongue swipes at me, leaving a swipe from the base of my balls to the tip of my head. Those three long torturous years twist the feeling into pain.

He coughs, clearing his throat as he looks at me. I know he's nervous so I treat him.

"Please Captain, put me in your mouth."

And I watch his eyes flash with fireworks before he buries my cock inside his mouth, jerking quickly and sporadically at first. But he doesn't take long to find that delirious, confident rhythm, his hand aiding and abetting. I lace my hands into his hair, smooth each strand and he looks at me, and I am going to remember that sight for a life time. The amazing man that is John Watson smiling at me with gratification as his lips stretch taut across me. I feel a pressure build in my balls as his tongue twists at me. This time I don't think he even knows how close I am before he pulls away.

Then his fingers pull quickly and harshly at the beads inside me as he leaves me empty. The fast and harsh movement isn't for the sensation of pain but for the impatience that's built in both of us.

"I'm going to fuck you now," he whispers so quietly it's almost as if it's meant only as a cue for himself.

As the beads are left abandoned on the bed he reaches for the lube and coats his fingers, but I want this hard and rough, I want him to break me.

"No," I say as I grab his wrist, preventing the preparation.

"Sherlock," he says trying to get away.

"Just fuck me now John."

He stares at me in disbelief as he mutters, "I can't go in dry, I'd tear you."

"Doctor, trust me and just fuck me."

"Stop it!"

He continues to resist so I trap my legs around his, pushing him hard in the chest so he turns around, falling into the sheets as I straddle him.

I grab his cock, aligning myself.

"Sherlock don't you dare."

He wrestles me around; the bed screeches with his effort. He drops the lube as his hands cup my face.

"This is all fun and games Sherlock but I'm not going to actually hurt you. You don't deserve to be actually hurt."

With that promise his lips meet mine and it's the first time this entire evening that he's kissed me. It's just a lip to lip touch, his full bottom lip slides against my own. The softness and taste of him burns through me but there's no desperation to deepen the touch, it's just a breath; we have time to explore and learn. A kiss that says so many things, it changes things. Time seems to still as our bodies curve and grind against each other.

As he pulls away I see his eyes glistening; and I'm reminded of the state of bereavement he is in.

"I'm so sorry John."

"This isn't" he rubs angrily at his eyes. "Sherlock this isn't for Mary."

He shakes his head when he asks, "when we were putting you on that plane, when you asked for time alone with me, what were you going to say to me?"

His eyes implore me, I can see by the thickness of the blue that he's no longer drunk. He's desperate. He's looking for a declaration of love but now is hardly the time. And how do I even put into words how much this man means to me? Those three words that are used nonsensically every day can't possibly hope to describe this man. There is nothing I can say that would ever explain the depth of emotion I feel for him.

"God do you even remember?" He laughs, he thinks it's rhetorical, as he shakes his head at what he sees as his own stupidity.

I don't have the words, and if I let any more time pass I will lose him, for good this time. instead I clasp his face between my hands, force eye contact.

"You've deleted-"

"Of course, I remember," I interrupt him with a promise I mean from the bottom of my wretched heart, _don't fall for me John, I won't have anyway of catching you_. "And of course, you know."

He looks deep in my eyes and nods because he does know and no more words are needed.

The rest of the sex is silent, but it's not a difficult silence like the world without him, and as his gaze stays with mine I allow myself to dare to hope that I won't ever know that suffocation again.


	3. Chapter 3 - Truth

**Memorandum Of Understanding And Experience, Mr Holmes.**

 **Chapter Three - Truth**

The sex is wordless but the moans of our pleasure form an everlasting melody. There's the grunt from my lips as his fingers breach me, knuckle deep. There's the rustle of the condom as he prepares himself. There's the harmony of moans as he finally enters me.

His cock stretches me beyond comparison and I wonder how I didn't know that I was empty before. My body was made to be like this with his. His hands rest above my head, his small but perfect biceps bulging in his arms. My legs rest against his shoulders, tilting my arse for his onslaught. His eyes are closed, long dark eyelashes protecting his mind from the burning intensity of our passion; but I can't even begin to close mine. The sight of his cock opening me is the most erotic sight I've ever seen and I want to watch as he comes undone inside me.

Our pattern is fast and rough, but he's gentle inside me – the contradiction is perfect for everything this man is.

He brushes against my prostate. His eyes open on a smile as he hides a chuckle at the loudness of my moan.

He smiles at me sweetly as he pushes hair from my forehead and I know he's broken his promise – oh yes he's thrown my mind into the pit of oblivion, but it's not just the title he's fucking; he's screwing someone he likes. Dr John Watson is touching someone he cares for. My best friend is making love to me.

It doesn't take long until we're crying out in the face of completion. His body gives way to me, his seed shoots warm inside me, and he dedicates to me.

"I love you, you stupid man."

At least I think that's what he says because it comes out something more like "I-loovgh-you-Ssstupeee-maaaaaghG"

I remember the way his tongue shapes each word, the breaths on the sibilant because my own world is pausing as he holds me precariously on the edge of completion.

And all I need to reach my oblivion is the feeling of his after shocks trembling within me.

His hands run through my hair, his eyes gazing over my body, as he coaxes me back to earth.

He stays within me as he cools, my seed cooling sticky and uncomfortable on my stomach. My legs are cramping. There's a tremor in his arms as he struggles to keep himself locked above me. But I don't want him to move, I never want him to move again. His eyes are locked on mine, and I wonder if he can hear all the words in my head as I can hear his; each sentiment returned. When he removes himself from me the ache of separation is almost too much to take.

He's silent when he stands from the bed and walks to the door, but this time I know that he's not leaving. He brings me a flannel from the bathroom and steps into his boxers. I clean myself off and I can physically feel my heart swell as he climbs back into my bed. Our bed?

His eyes smile as they dance over me. Then he's turning onto his side away from me; pulling the pillow down beneath his head.

"Sleep," he says, it's an order and my body rushes to comply, "we'll talk in the morning."

* * *

The memories are dark and each strand of light is too sharp, too angular. There's the look of hatred on that woman's face. The shine of the gun. The sound of the gun. But then no pain, no impact and it's because of her. It's because she jumped for me. And the look in his eyes. My heart drenched in the pain of failure.

"Sherlock," I hear his voice.

And then I can feel John saving me.

"Sherlock you were having a nightmare," are the words that release me from my slumber.

"Sorry." I say closing in on myself but he presses his thigh in between my legs and keeps me open. With a hand tilted on my chin he maintains eye contact; my strong caring Doctor.

"Do you have them a lot?"

There's no point in lying, he would be able to read the truth anyway.

"Every night since."

"Sherlock," he whispers, his eyes lower beneath his eyelashes. "It isn't your fault."

"It's OK you don't have to-" I say my hand wrapping around the back of his neck.

"Let me speak. I think I may know more than you for once OK?" He insists his blue eyes crystal clear on mine. "The bullet was meant for you yes, but she knew what she was doing. She was a trained assassin."

He breathes heavily, closes his eyes for the memory of her. But when he opens them again the emotion I can see within them isn't one of the past, it's directed solely at me, and it's so strong it almost petrifies me. But I can bear the pain that being with him would bring, I can stand the terror of romantic love as long as it's him who's walking every step with me. It would be so much easier than surviving in that silent, suffocating loneliness of a life without him.

"Do you not know why she did it?" He whispers after a while. "She was giving me to you, she always used to joke about you loving me more than she did. She knew, I think, that if I lost you again and properly I wouldn't be able to continue. Without her I can learn to survive, if I'd lost you…I…"

I don't realise I'm going to ask the next question until it's out there, complicating things. "John I haven't seen you for nearly a year. Why?"

"It was too much, it was just too much." He sighs. "I didn't realise how much I needed you until I had to say goodbye at the airport. As soon as I started thinking after Mary, I thought of you, and I knew that as soon as I saw you again I'd need to kiss you. I needed to be ready for you if you wanted me; and if you didn't want me I needed… I couldn't be lost in the past." There's a shake of his head as he chuckles to himself. "This is bloody typical of you, this!"

"What?"

What started as a smile and a laugh has ended with his body separated from me, as he sits curled into the corner. This separation is more than physical.

"My wife dies, is murdered in front of me, and I end up comforting you!"

"I want to comfort you John," I say.

"But you always land so off pieste," his eyes jab me with guilt. "It wasn't just _me_ who abandoned _you_ , you do realise that?"

"I phoned."

"Twice, ten months ago."

I hear his stern words, see the world from his point of view; and determination presses through me stronger than I've felt it before. I have to do better, be better. I want to be a man who is deserving of Dr John Watson.

"Teach me then, I'm no good at this so you're going to have to show me." I sit up next to him, take his hand in mine. "But please teach me how to make it up to you."

"It's not that easy."

"Please, I'll do whatever it takes."

"It'll be a long time before..."

"John," I say steeling myself as I make a promise. I make my last vow for the second time and the penultimate time.

He holds my eyes as I say, "if you'll have me, I'll give you my life time."

He sighs, a deep low sigh that seems to resonate all over him, it's not exactly happy but it relaxes his entire body. He places his hand on the back of my neck. He brings his lips to mine. I know from the shape of his lips it's intended as a short, soft, sweet kiss; but as he pulls away it's with a sigh and his lips chase mine again. It's like this that he consents to our forever.

"Enough," he whispers as he pulls away; but then changes his mind and presses one last kiss to my lips, "for now."

He lies back down for sleep. I sit and watch his dreams, I'm made as his protector but it's him who has always saved me. From this moment on I'll do whatever it takes. _That's a memorandum of understanding and experience, Mr Holmes._

* * *

 _I apologise for the ridiculous fluff this chapter ended up being! It wasn't my intention…the boys must have hijacked it...or maybe it's because it's the first Monday of the year without Sherlock :( Thanks to everyone who spent some time reading this I hope it was as fun to read as it was to write._


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